


Four things Jack never did in 19th Century France (and one he did)

by demon_faith



Category: Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Torchwood
Genre: Crossover, F/M, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-16
Updated: 2010-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 14:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demon_faith/pseuds/demon_faith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But there are dreams that cannot be/and there are storms we cannot weather</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four things Jack never did in 19th Century France (and one he did)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Skitty Kat](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Skitty+Kat).



> So, I thought to myself, what does skitty_kat like? She likes Torchwood, I thought. Oh, and she likes Les Misérables.  
> …  
> And…uh, this turned up. Happy Birthday, Kat!

1.

It was not the storm that woke her.

The scrape of the old window opening, followed by a man's curse, jerked her from sleep and she sat up, staring at the figure halfway through her window. He landed on the floor heavily, clutching his right shoulder and leaving a puddle of bloody water on the newly-scrubbed boards.

"What are you doing here?" she said. He started, fixing wild eyes on her face, glancing at the door and the corners of the room. Checking they were alone.

"Hide me," he pleaded, and she could not resist his startlingly blue eyes or his soft lips. She had never seen a man quite like him but something told her she could trust those eyes.

There were voices outside her door and she leapt from the bed, pulling up her blankets. "Quick – under the bed!"

She ran to the window and looked out. There were men with lanterns in the street below, calling to one another over the thunder. She did not know them and that meant trouble. Quietly, she closed the window and drew the curtains, shutting out the storm. She threw a shift over the puddle and then balled up the soaked cloth, stuffing it behind the curtain.

Running back to bed, she saw that the man had concealed himself and she pulled the blankets down just as the door opened.

"Fantine, what are you doing out of bed?"

She held her hands together and regarded her father seriously. "The storm woke me, Papa."

Another roll of thunder lent credence to her tale and her father nodded, before frowning at her feet.

"You are wet," he said suspiciously and she bowed her head.

"I went to watch the lightning. Then, I saw…men in the street, so I wished to look closer. I opened the window and…"

Her father laughed. "Silly child. Now, to bed and do not rise until morning." His face darkened. "It is not a night for little girls."

She nodded solemnly and slipped back under the covers, warming her wet feet under the wool. Her door closed with a gentle click as her heart beat loudly in her chest. She was hiding a strange man under her bed! She had lied to her father! What had she been thinking?

"Thank you," was what she heard and she sighed softly. She heard him shift and the blanket twitched.

"Do not leave yet," she heard herself saying. "They will be gone in an hour and then it will be safer."

"But I'm putting you in danger."

"Do not offend me, sir," she said primly, hoping she sounded just like her mother. "I would not turn out a guest."

The man laughed and the sound washed over her blissfully. "A guest, am I? That makes a change."

She heard his grunts of pain, as he moved beneath the mattress. "Are you hurt, sir?"

"Don't worry about me," he said cheerfully and she could not help but smile. "Soon, I'll be out of your way and you can get on with your weaving or whatever you girls do."

"Sewing, dancing, singing and pianoforte. Maman appreciates the arts."

"You're quite the accomplished young lady," he said. "So, not married yet?"

"I am only sixteen years, sir," she said, affronted. "Papa has not yet selected a suitable husband for me."

"Oh, right, you girls marry late. Got you."

Fantine frowned. "You…do not speak as a Parisian would, sir. Where are you from?"

He laughed again. "Now that is a long story. I'll tell it to you some time."

Some time. A time in the future! She heard him move under the bed and her blankets were lifted, revealing his dishevelled form and his wide smile.

"I've got to be off, Fantine. But I might see you around." His smile widened and he staggered to his feet, crossing the room and peeking through the curtains. She followed him, touching the arm of his soft blue coat.

"I do not know your name, sir."

The window opened and he flashed her another smile. "Captain Jack Harkness. Goodnight now."

Then he was gone.

~

When she was walking with Marie in the park, she saw him. He was wearing just a shirt, with a ruby cravat and tight black breeches. Marie tried to steer her away but she called out to him.

"Monsieur 'Arkness! Good day to you!"

He turned, startled, but smiled broadly at her, bowing to first her and then Marie.

"Good day, Mademoiselle. And to you, Madam. A lovely day for walking."

"Fantine, who is this man?" Marie whispered fiercely but she ignored her.

"I have not seen you for some time," she said cryptically. "I hope I find you well."

"Indeed, Mademoiselle." She noticed him touch at his right shoulder briefly and she nodded.

"That is good to hear. I shall expect your calling card – everyone knows the house of Monsieur Fournier."

He bowed again and then she turned on her heel, leaving the park with her heart trembling in her chest.

~

When no calling card arrived, she was not surprised. She had only wished him to know her surname, so that he may greet her publicly in the proper manner. It would not do for him to know only half her name.

The knock at the window was more expected and she rushed to open it, glad of her father's late night at cards and her mother's deep sleep. He entered silently and, when he kissed her, she knew that he understood.

She let him lead the dance, let him teach her, mould her, and she found him considerate and gentle. He did not stay but he beseeched her with his eyes to always keep the window open.

Twice a week, he would visit with her and she awaited those nights eagerly. No other man could hold her eye and she started searching for him whenever she left the house, but he was never seen. She told no one about him, for who would ever accept her love for this stranger who bought her gifts of wine, of song, of passion?

One day, he did not visit. She waited by the window, watching the leaves fall from the trees outside and wondering what had kept him. Still he did not come and, even as she realised her soft belly was swelling with his child, she cried for him and the fate that must have met her beloved.

When her father threw her out into the street, she remembered him still and hoped he would come for her. Her Jacque with his smile and his eyes and his heart. She hoped for him until her own heart beat no more, but she smiled as she thought of seeing him once again.

 

2.

As he was leaving the party, he caught sight of a man in the bushes. It was a strange place for a man to be, he thought, but he paid it no mind. Nothing good could come from investigating it.

A few girls from his factory were passing by and he nodded to them as he made his way home. It was only a few streets away and he was well respected in the town, most men lifting their hats to him and the escorted ladies calling greetings.

His house was already lit and he opened the front door with glee, eagerly awaiting the warmth of the fire. His mayoral duties were often hard, but tonight had been a true celebration, a night apart from duty. With a glass of wine, he sat down to read his calling cards but he fell into a doze.

The clatter of silver roused him and he snatched up a lantern and the poker, making his way to the study. He heard the intruder curse and he slowed his approach, brandishing the poker ahead of him as he peered through the open doorway.

A tall, lean man was taking his silver from the shelves. He appeared unkempt and wild-eyed, picking up and putting down pieces at random and knocking them over in his haste. At first, Jean thought he might be drunk but he appeared steady on his feet and determined in his manner.

"Explain yourself," he demanded and the man dropped the cup he'd been holding, turning to face him with spread hands.

"I need…I'm looking for something. Please, there isn't time. I need a watch – a silver watch with only one hand. It's dented and tarnished, marked on the back. Please, if you have it-"

"I have it," Jean said, drawing the watch from his pocket and letting it swing from the chain. The man stared at it and leaned forward slightly, before hesitating.

In that moment, he was reminded of the favour granted to him and he held out the watch. The man took it quickly and surged forward, planting a kiss on his lips before scrambling through the open window.

Jean touched his lips, where the man had left his mark, and realised he would get no sleep that night.

 

3.

He was a friend of Enjolras. The rumour was that he had met General Lamarque, had been entrusted with a secret, had made a promise in return. Though the others spoke boldly about his exploits, Marius remained sceptical – he would judge the man for himself.

The tavern was quiet for once; only Grantaire was in his cups, sniping at anyone and everyone, as Marius took his customary seat. "So, where is he then?"

Enjolras laughed. "Patience, Marius! He will come."

Soon, only they three remained. Marius nursed his wine and watched the door, wondering why he had even agreed to meet this man. It wasn't as if he believed the story and he wasn't one of Enjolras' close confidantes. However, even Grantaire seemed interested in the man and that had piqued his curiosity.

The wind blew open the door and a man stood beyond, his coat flaring behind him. He stepped into the tavern, closing the door softly and making his way to their table. There was something strange about him, Marius decided – something about the way he carried himself, and how his hair was cropped short yet he wore no wig. Yes, he was indeed interesting.

"Sorry I'm late," he sat and then regarded Marius seriously. "Who's your friend?"

Enjolras clapped them both on the shoulder. "Jacque, this is Marius Pontmercy, a fellow student. Marius, this is Jacque 'Arkness…a friend of the General."

The two men nodded to each other, Marius searching his eyes for any sign of betrayal. He saw nothing but blue and after a long moment, forced himself to look away.

"Do you have news, Jacque?" Enjolras said urgently and Jacque sighed.

"It's complicated. There's definitely something going on but my sources won't tell me what. Yet I think the storm is almost upon us."

Grantaire nodded grimly and drained his glass, staggering to his feet and tugging at Enjolras' arm. "Come, we are already late."

"We are," Enjolras said ruefully. "Until later, friends."

And so Marius found himself alone with Jacque.

"Where do you think they're going?" Jacque said lightly and Marius wondered if he might be a spy.

"I do not know," he said stiffly and Jacque laughed.

"And I thought you were the freedom-lovers! Come on, Mari, surely you can tell?"

He had no idea what Jacque was talking about and he saw the realisation dawn, the smirk settle on the handsome face. "Well, maybe not then. Another drink?"

He should say no and go home. Instead, he held out his glass and received a dazzling grin. Most interesting.

There was much to learn here and Marius felt obligated to stay. For the Friends, he told himself, and accepted the wine.

~

The Friends of the ABC were not modest drinkers. The clock had yet to strike twelve and most had already succumbed, propped against the wall or taking the serving girls into dark corners. Enjolras had led them in a rousing song before promptly disappearing, leaving him alone and without company.

"Mind if I join you?"

Marius smiled warmly. "Jacque. Of course not – please."

Jacque took the chair and turned it, sitting on it backwards. It was a strange thing to do but it was entirely Jacque and it made Marius smile again. There was definitely something enchanting about the man, some strange mystery begging to be solved. Marius was determined he would be the one to crack it.

"They're having a good time, aren't they?" Jacque said, looking round and grinning again. Marius sighed.

"Yes, they are always in high spirits."

Jacque suddenly sobered. "They're going to need it."

Marius leaned forward. "What have you heard?"

"Trouble," Jacque said cryptically and then shook his head. "But now is not the time for that." A strange smile lit his face. "May I show you something?"

Jacque stood, offering his hand, and Marius took it curiously, finding himself led towards the small window under the stairs. Gazing out at the starlit night, he saw the men lurking by the streetlamp, watching the tavern.

"They are spies?" he asked and Jacque laughed.

 

"Oh, almost certainly. They've been watching you for some time." Marius felt a hand settle on his waist but he did not start. "How about we put on a show?"

"What do y-" Marius turned and found his arms full of Jacque, as the man leaned forward and kissed him.

He should protest. He should tell him that he had misunderstood, that he was not like that, that…his mind ran out of reasons and Jacque's hands settled under his shirt, pulling him in closer.

Jacque broke their kiss and smiled. Marius felt his breeches loosen, as Jacque pushed them over his hips and knelt in the dust of the tavern floor.

"No…Jacque, I mean…I'm not-" Then, Jacque took him in his mouth.

And Marius realised he didn't know himself at all.

~

"I've met a girl."

Jacque paused for a moment, before continuing to stroke his thigh. "Is she pretty?"

Marius frowned. "I think I could fall in love with her."

"Then, you should."

A kiss to his neck, then another and Marius lay back, absently settling Jacque against his chest. "Won't you miss me?"

Jacque laughed then, but it sounded not quite real. "There are a hundred like you, Mari. A hundred."

Marius kissed him firmly before glancing up at the clock. "Baise! The time! We are late, Jacque!"

Leaping from the bed, he pulled on his breeches, glancing back at Jacque, who had not moved. "Well?"

"I am not joining you," he said, softly. "Later."

Marius frowned but let it pass. There was so much Jacque didn't tell him. He buttoned his shirt and headed for the door.

"Don't go," Jacque said suddenly and Marius turned to him, confused.

"It is just a meeting at the café. Why? What is wrong?"

Jacque hesitated and he saw conflict in his eyes. "It's nothing. Forget…forget I said anything."

There was something Jacque wasn't saying, something left unspoken in the air. Marius pulled on his coat and ran out into the rain, not daring to look back.

~

Enjolras lay dead on the battlements. Éponine by the wine crate. Gavroche between them and the police. He could not look at them.

He was bleeding, from where he did not know. The air was thick with smoke from discharged guns and his eyes were watering, his vision blurred and blackening. Not long now.

Yet he would recognise Jacque anywhere. "Oh, Mari," he said and placed a kiss upon his lips. He heard the scrape of metal and then Jacque was laying him down, pressing his hand, before the black curtain came down and there was nothing.

 

4.

He did not love her. He had never loved her.

La Seine called to her again and she walked beside its banks, listening to the water, to his voice murmuring in her ear. He did not love Cosette. He did not love his revolution. He loved only her.

The thunder pealed and she was soaked by the rain, shivering and alone, the illusion broken. Without thought, she ran to the nearest tavern and threw herself through the door. The old men regarded her with contempt but she held her head high and settled into the doorframe.

"Buy a drink or leave," the innkeeper barked and she turned to stare out into the merciless storm.

"She's with me."

A man placed a hand on her shoulder and she turned, startled, but he smiled at her and led her gently to a table by the fire. "You must be freezing. Here, have my coat."

The thick wool hung heavily on her shoulders, but it was warm and dry and she pulled it closer round her.

"I am in disguise, Monsieur," she said, mildly.

"Oh really? Well, I'm sorry, but I…recognised you from the river. You talk to yourself, you know."

She blushed but did not speak. His smile widened, but then faded away. "Tell me about Marius."

"I don't even know your name," she said haughtily and he nodded.

"Okay, that's fair. I'm Captain Jack Harkness. A pleasure to meet you…"

He did not know her name. She had an advantage. Yet, his eyes whispered 'trust me'. "Éponine Thenardier."

Monsieur Harkness kissed her hand. "As I said, a pleasure. Wine?"

"No, thank you," she said politely and he grinned again. "Suit yourself." He poured himself another glass and signalled the innkeeper to bring more. He was watching her intensely, passionately, as she would have Marius watch her.

"Come with me?" he said suddenly and she found herself following, ignoring the knowing eyes of the patrons, heading to a room in the back of the inn. He shut the door.

"It is a night of revolution," he said dramatically. "A night to bleed and…to die. So, my Éponine, will you dance with me?"

She knew he was not asking for a turn about the floor. She knew this meant the last shred of her dubious honour. And yet, he wanted her and he wanted to touch her, to know her, and wasn't that exactly what she craved?

Monsieur Harkness smiled and leaned forward to kiss her. She surrendered to his mouth, letting him bring her to the narrow bed, cast off her wet clothing, warm her body with his.

"Do you love him?" he whispered to her and she did not know what to say, what to think.

"Yes," she said, because she could not lie to him, and he nodded, pushing her down into the mattress.

"Then, tell me. Tell me…everything you would…say to him…"

And so she told. She railed against Cosette, against the bloody revolution and the spectre of death. She pleaded with him to stay, to love her, and, as Jacque whispered her name, she knew she had been heard.

 

5.

"Jack? Where are you going?"

Ianto started out of the TARDIS, but the Doctor held him back. "Let him go."

In the murk of an impending storm, Jack made his way towards a rundown building on the corner of a street. Slowly, he pressed his hand to the window and simply stared.

Somewhere, Ianto could hear music.

"Do you know-"

"No. He just…he said he had to come here."

Ianto looked round at the dingy streets, streaked with mud and perhaps the faintest tinge of blood. "Where are we?"

The Doctor sighed. "Nineteenth century France. There was a small uprising near to here, but that was months ago now."

"Why would Jack have been here?" Ianto asked, not really expecting an answer. He just had to understand why Jack was fixated on the window and what lay beyond, why he was crying in the rain.

"Time Agent business," the Doctor spat the words and Ianto nodded slowly, before walking out into the rain.

As he approached the window, Jack didn't acknowledge his presence. Ianto stood beside him, looking into the tavern and the solitary man sitting in the centre, bandaged and broken.

"Do you know him?" Jack shook his head.

"No," he said, but Ianto heard the lie and didn't question further.

The sound of a piano carried through the Paris night and they stood in the rain, waiting for a song that never came.

_fin_


End file.
